What We Notice When We’re Quiet

cicadas scream still—
but somewhere behind the noise,
one soft bell ringing

—

In the summer of 2015, I was staying in Zürich. Not the glittering postcard version—the lake shimmering under clean light, the banks full of pressed suits—but the quieter edges. Near the tram lines where the paint peeled from the benches, and Turkish grocers stayed open just a little later than they were supposed to.

I rented a short-term studio above a bakery that smelled like burnt sugar and sleep. The walls were thin, and every morning I’d wake to the sound of dough being kneaded below me.
I wasn’t there for work. Not exactly. I had told people I needed to “get away to focus,” which was partly true.
But the deeper truth was this: I needed to learn what happened when I stopped reaching for people who had already let go.

And in that strange quiet, I started to notice things.
What absence feels like.
What attention actually means.
And what a message left unsent can still teach you.

—

When You Don’t Hear From Someone

There’s a specific ache that arrives when someone you care about stops responding.
A slow burn.
We fill the silence with meaning—
usually the worst kind.

If a man ignores you, we say he’s on his mission. Focused.
If a woman does, we whisper she’s already gone. Entertaining someone else.

But sometimes, people are just inward.
And the silence? It’s not about you.

I learned that lesson the hard way—by assuming too much.
But also,
by receiving something I didn’t expect.

—

What My Sister Did

That summer, when I’d stopped texting, stopped replying,
when my world had narrowed to long walks by the Limmat and cheap coffee at the Coop across the street—
my sister started mailing postcards.

Not long letters.
Not confrontational “where are you”s.
Just small, quiet things.

A photo of our old cat.
A drawing she made of a vending machine she thought I’d like.
One card that just said,
“Hope Zürich is treating you gently.”

She didn’t try to fix me.
She didn’t demand I explain the silence.
She just reminded me,
in her way,
that I still belonged somewhere.

—

Presence Doesn’t Have to Be Loud

What she taught me, without meaning to, was this:
When someone you love is quiet,
you don’t need to fill the space.
You just need to stay nearby.
Leave the door unlocked.
Let your care be known in the softest, least demanding ways.

That’s what I remember most about that summer—
not the silence,
but the way her postcards turned it into something else.
Not pressure.
But presence.
Not rescue.
Just recognition.

—

Wabi-Sabi in the Waiting

Wabi-sabi teaches us to accept the incomplete.
To find beauty not in resolution,
but in attention.

That summer, my sister’s small gestures reminded me:

• You don’t need to say everything. You just need to stay connected.
• Sometimes love is a rhythm, not a response.
• What looks like distance might actually be devotion—with better boundaries.
• Let people come back in their own time. Just be there when they do.

—

Now, when someone I care about goes quiet,
I don’t panic the way I used to.
I don’t assume the worst.

Instead, I write a sentence and don’t send it.
Or I send a photo of something that made me laugh.
Or I leave a voice note that says nothing important,
except, “I was thinking of you.”

Because I remember Zürich.
I remember how much that meant.

And I remember my sister—
waiting without asking,
loving without noise.

Showing up
even when I couldn’t.